Meet In the Middle
by ChibiDawn23
Summary: "Meet Me Inside," and after. Hamilton's feeling fury and frustration at his commanding officer. Washington's disappointed in himself and his aide-de-camp. And so maybe it takes an extra face-to-face for the two of them to see each others' sides of the story. Father/Son vibe with a side of John Laurens.


**Author's Note: Another jaunt into this fandom because I can't seem to quit thinking about it. Felt like Washington had more he wanted to say to Alexander after he calmed down a bit. I swear I'll get back to other writing soon...Oh, and once again, obviously not 100% historically accurate to American history.**

**Disclaimer: I am not the awesomeness that is Lin-Manuel Miranda, therefore, the characters aren't mine. Can you own them if they were real? Does it count if I base them 95% off the musical and 5% off of history? Does that make them 95% Lin's and 5% belonging to themselves? Do I get like .05% because I took creative liberty? Gosh, I could sure use a lawyer...**

* * *

Through the haze of smoke clearing from John's pistol, Alexander Hamilton saw Charles Lee cry out as he grabbed his side and collapsed to the ground. He didn't miss the smirk or the satisfied nod John Laurens threw in the wounded General's direction as he lowered his gun.

"Lee, do you yield?" Hamilton asked for confirmation of the writhing figure on the ground. _Because if he doesn't, I'm sure John wouldn't mind another shot at him!_

Aaron Burr was knelt down next to the general, blood seeping against his fingers as he pressed them against Lee's wound. "You shot him in the side! _Yes_, he yields!" he yelled back at Alexander and John.

Hamilton looked at John, who crossed his arms. "I'm satisfied," John confirmed.

Alex wasn't sure that _he_ was.

"Here comes the General!" someone yelled frantically.

Burr sighed. "This should be fun." Lee whimpered and Burr pressed his handkerchief harder into the wound.

The sight that met General George Washington shocked him. His aide-de-camp, Alexander Hamilton, next to John Laurens, a smoking pistol at his side, pointed to the ground. Aaron Burr, on the ground next to General Lee –_Dear God -_who was writhing in pain on the ground. Burr's fingers were red against the blue of the uniform jacket. Washington barked an order to two men standing nearby to fetch the medic and get Lee to the infirmary. Two soldiers scrambled, hoisting Lee up as he screamed in agony.

Hamilton glanced at John, surreptitiously rolled his eyes. _A bit dramatic, _he thought as someone brought a litter for them to put Lee on to get him back to camp. As they passed Washington, the General held up a hand. He leaned over so Lee would hear him, and said, "Lee, believe me. These young men don't speak for me. Thank you for your service."

Hamilton didn't bother to hide the look of incredulity that crossed his face. _What_?! After everything Lee had said about Washington, called him unfit to lead, indecisive…Washington was practically _forgiving_ Lee! Fury raced over Hamilton's features.

He barely heard Washington. "Hamilton." His tone was soft, an undercurrent of simmering anger underneath.

"Sir?"

Washington's tone was controlled, but there was no mistaking he was upset. "Meet me inside." Before Hamilton could say anything, Washington had executed a precision about-face and was striding deliberately back to camp.

Laurens looked at Hamilton, rested a hand on his best friend's arm. The two exchanged a look before Hamilton followed after Washington, jogging to keep up with the taller man's strides.

* * *

By the time Hamilton had composed himself to the point where he thought he was ready to meet with his commanding officer, General George Washington was waiting for him, hands clasped behind his back as he stood in front of his desk. Hamilton stepped inside the tent and let the flap fall.

He didn't speak. Washington knew he was there. And he was afraid if he _did_ speak, he would say something he would regret. _Or is it better at this juncture to speak my mind?_

It seemed forever before Washington spoke. "Son-"

"I'm not your son." The response was almost automatic, and Hamilton bit his lip in an attempt to shut himself up.

Washington seemed unfazed. The older man refused to turn and face him, stoking Alex's anger even more. "This war is hard enough without infighting," he began, but Alexander cut him off.

_Better to speak now_, he had decided. "Lee called you out! We-John and I- we called his bluff."

"And solved nothing. This will only aggravate our allies to the south." Washington's tone was succinct.

"You're right," Alexander agreed. "About solving nothing. John should've shot him in the _mouth_; that would've shut him up!"

Washington turned at that moment, and Alex fought the instinct to take a step backwards. There was barely-controlled fury-or was it something else?-in his General's eyes. "Son-" he began again.

"I'm _not_ your son," Alex gritted his teeth and ground out. Alex had had _enough_. What didn't Washington _understand_? Why didn't he _understand_ why he and John had done what they had done?

"Watch your tone," Washington reprimanded him. "I am not a maiden in need of defending-"

"Lee. Thomas Conway." Alex ticked them off his fingers. "These men take your name and they rake it through the _mud_!"

"My name has been through a lot. I can take it," Washington informed him. He could see the anger-or was it something else?- in his young aide-de-camp's eyes.

"Well, _sir_, I don't have your name, or your titles, _or_ your land," Alex told him, and at _last_, Washington understood why Alexander Hamilton was _so_ upset. This wasn't about Lee's words, or rather, it wasn't _just_ about Lee's words. "If you gave me command of a battalion-"

"No." It was a conversation they'd had often, and his answer was always the same. Hamilton didn't understand why Washington promoted everyone else around him to a command, why he kept Alexander Hamilton within arms' reach. Washington wasn't sure he could make the brilliant, yet brash, young officer see his side, and so had remained silent on the matter. But he knew the young officer was frustrated. He just hadn't realized _how_ much getting passed over for promotion had affected Alexander Hamilton. _Or how it would affect _me_ if I gave in._

"If you gave me a group of men to lead," Hamilton continued on, oblivious to the torment in his commanding officer's thoughts, "I could fly above my station after the war-"

"Or you could die." The words were quiet, but they echoed loudly in the silence of the tent.

Hamilton squared his shoulders, looked at Washington. "I am more than willing to die," he informed him.

_Of this I have no doubt_. "Your wife needs you alive. _I_ need you alive, son-"

"Call me _'son'_ one more time-" Hamilton exploded, taking a step forward towards Washington. Then, he froze. His eyes widened. In the rage in his own eyes, he hadn't bothered to see the _sadness_ and the _disappointment_ in George Washington's expression. Not only that, he had just crossed a very serious line. Washington_ was_ his commanding officer, after all, and he was still the general's aide-de-camp. "I-"

"Go home, Alexander." The order was short, as Washington turned around, retreating to his desk.

_What?_ "Sir-"

He didn't look up, didn't meet Alexander's eyes. "That's an order from your commander. Go _home_."

Alexander opened his mouth to respond, to protest, to do _anything_…and for once in his life, words failed him. He didn't bother with a salute, just turned and exited the tent silently.

Washington dropped his head to his hands, sighing in frustration.

* * *

Alex burst into the tent he shared with John Laurens, startling his friend as he yanked out his trunk, began shoving his things into it. Laurens stared for a moment. "What happened?" he asked finally.

His friend threw a pair of boots into the trunk with such force it nearly knocked it over. "I've been dismissed," he said after a moment.

Laurens' jaw dropped. "I'm sorry…_what_ did you say?"

Alex slammed the trunk's lid down and hit the top of it with his fist. "I've been _dismissed_, John!" he burst out. "Washington told me to leave camp."

Laurens leapt off his cot. "You _can't_!" he protested. "Alexander, you didn't even fire a _shot_, _I_ did!" He started forward. "I'll go talk to Washington _right_ now-"

"It's not because of the duel." Alex laughed humorlessly. He shook his head. "All right, it isn't _only_ because of the duel," he amended with a sigh.

"Alex…what did you _do_?" John demanded of him. His friend glanced up, and John knew the answer. "You pestered him about command again, didn't you?" He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Alex-"

"He thinks I'm too _young_," Alexander said bitterly. "Which, I don't understand- _Lafayette_ has his own command, and he's two years younger than I am. Hell, _you've_ gotten a command at least once and you're a year younger than me!" He began shoving his things back into his trunk in earnest. "He keeps calling me _son_, like I'm still a child-" He kicked his trunk with his boot.

John watched his friend pack for a minute or two. "Alexander, once again, I think you've let your emotions get in the way of your abnormally large brain-"

"I-_what_?" Alex paused in his folding, then looked up to see John standing at attention, and a shadow fall over him on the floor.

"Mr. Laurens," George Washington said. "Could you give us a moment, please?"

"Yes, sir," John replied. He saluted and stepped over Alex's legs to get out of the tent. He gave a quick glance back at his friend, who didn't meet his eyes, then, he was gone.

* * *

"Something I can help you with, _sir_?" Alex spit out the title like it tasted bad. "I'm just packing my things to go _home_, as I was ordered."

Washington stepped around him. Alex heard the thunk of his boots on the ground and the creak of John's cot as Washington settled onto it. He refused to look up.

"I don't suppose you recall me mentioning at any time that Martha and I are unable to have children of our own," Washington said after a moment.

A light flicked on in Alexander's subconscious, but he did his best to ignore it.

"It's my fault, I suppose," the general continued. "A trip to Barbados when I was young, a bout of smallpox. Doctors don't know for sure, but that is what they suspect is the reason."

Alex paused in his packing, carefully closing the lid, but still refusing to look Washington in the face.

"As a result, I'm afraid that I fail in my duties on many occasions. A commander should have equal respect for all the men under his command, no matter their age, their heritage…" He chuckled softly. "And yet, I don't, Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton. The fact is, you're more than just my right hand man," he admitted, and now, Alex stood up slowly and turned to face George Washington.

"When I call you 'son,' Alexander, it's not to belittle you. It's not to remind you the difference in our ages, or the differences in our combat experience. It's because that's how this foolish old man sees you—as the son I wish Martha and I had been able to have." The General remained seated as Alex crossed two steps across the floor to stand toe to toe with him. He started to speak, but Washington held up a hand. "And this is why I continue to pass on your requests for combat. I could not bear it if something happened to you on the front lines, Alexander. If something were to happen to you, I would not only lose one of my finest men, I would feel as though I lost a child."

Alex was silent. Then, "Sir…" He paused, searching for the right words. "The duel was my idea. John was-he…please don't do anything to John, he's had a stellar career-"

Washington shook his head. "Alexander. Rest assured. John's commission is not in jeopardy. While I do not, and in fact _can_not condone the actions the two of you took in the name of defending my honor…Lee agreed, the terms were met and John drew first blood."

Alexander looked at him, relieved. "Sir, I-"

"What's done is done. That does _not_, however, excuse _your_ insubordination earlier," he reminded him, and Alex closed his mouth and stared at his boots. "As I understand it, your wife is due with your first child any day now," he continued. "So go _home_, Alexander. Go home and be with your wife. And then, perhaps," Washington stood up, looking down on him. He rested a hand briefly on Alexander's shoulder as he walked past him toward the door. "Perhaps you'll understand why I'm not so much angry at you as disappointed in you." He reached for the tent flap.

"Sir."

Washington paused, looking back at Hamilton. The younger man was facing him, standing at attention, right hand in a smart salute. Washington returned the gesture and ducked outside.

Alex watched the door for a moment, then snapped the locks on his trunk closed and stood up.

* * *

A month later, Alexander Hamilton stood over his son's crib, watching Phillip were falling off the trees outside his father-in-law's home. Eliza was downstairs with her father and youngest sister, leaving the two Hamilton men alone upstairs. _What I wouldn't do for you,_ he thought, running a finger down his son's cheek. _What I wouldn't do to protect you. To keep you safe-_

He froze.

A small smile played across his lips as he rested a hand on Phillip's back. He shook his head, chuckling quietly to himself.

He understood, now.


End file.
